Page 8 of Catching Trouble

My blurry vision swam into focus, and I shook my head in disbelief.

HadAquamanmoved to the French Riviera?

I gaped as he carefully unhooked my fingers from the net. He was… he washuge.Superhero huge. And covered in green-blue tattoos.

They stretched from the back of his hands, up his arms, all the way to his neck, then spread across the planes of his chest, creeping down to the muscles of his stomach. I bit my lip. He looked like he was wearing a pretty suit of armour.

I took a shaky breath, which must have come out way harder than I expected, because he drew his dark brows together, running his hazel eyes over me.

“Respire, tout va bien.”

I didn’t understand him, but even with a cove-full of water in my ears, the throaty gravel in his voice sent shivers across my skin, making my pulse dance.

I blinked up at him. “What?”

He closed his lids for a beat before bringing his gaze back to mine. “Breathe,” he said. “Are you okay?”

He spoke in heavily accented English, and I couldn’t help it, but something curled in my tummy. What was it about a sexy accent that rendered me helpless? As a serial traveller, the struggle was real.

I nodded, pushing a dripping clump of hair from my face. Fishing nets and curls? Not a great match. He ran his eyes over me, and a shiver rolled down my spine. I was sprawled at the bottom of his tiny boat—less sea siren, more drowned rat.

Way to make an entrance.

My rescuer, or my would-be murderer—it was hard to tell at this point—stared down at me.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice more velvety than I remembered.

I shook my head, unable to form words. Hating the height disadvantage, I braced my hand on the bottom of the boat and pushed to standing.

I immediately regretted my decision.

The boat lurched, tipping hard, and I stumbled across the slick wood, straight into his arms. Momentum and the rockinghull did the rest, toppling us both onto the narrow wooden seat at the centre of the boat.

He closed his arms around me, and the light scent of frangipani and saltwater tickled my nose. My gaze drifted over the patterns inked into his arms. Then the light dusting of dark hair covering the sunbaked skin underneath. With the heat radiating from his body, I could almost taste him.

The warmth of his lap seared into the back of my legs. His thighs were solid and bronzed and… holy hell! What if he thought I’d fallen into him on purpose?

I scrambled away, desperate for my own space—my own oxygen to breathe. But he closed his arms tighter.

“Wait,” he growled.

My pulse jumped. Wait for what? For him to lunge? For the cold open ofLaw and Order: French Riviera?

I liked the show, but I’d never imagined starring in it, with a toe tag and an unflattering close-up.

Instead, I screamed—literally screamed. At least that was what I aimed for. But thanks to my absolute terror, my cry turned into more of a whimper.

Before I could protest further, though, he picked me up and placed me next to him on the bench. He met my gaze and when I didn’t yell again; he nodded.

Without a pause, he leaned out of the side of the boat and pulled in the rest of his net, his muscles firing under the effort.

With a scowl, he inspected the tears made by my thrashing limbs. “Merde. It’s ruined.” He held it up to make his point. “This is hand knotted.”

I scowled back at him. Was he serious? Was that all he cared about? I’d almost drowned thanks to him and his precious floating murder-weapon.

I turned on the bench to face him. Even sitting at my full height, he dwarfed me. Dammit. “I don’t care if your net is hand knotted, spun by solid gold spiders and blessed by fairies. It hasno business being wrapped around my body. You could have drowned me.”

He knitted his brows together, and I got my first proper look at his face. The green flecks in his eyes, the tendrils of hair escaping the small ponytail at his nape and the sprinkle of silver at his temples. He stared at me so intently that I swallowed, and something fizzed low in my belly.